It was too early to head up to the golf course if I wanted to see how busy it was when Larry Saylor had gone back up to that spot. I went upstairs, retrieved my cell phone from its umbilical cord to the outlet on the wall, and checked. Three messages, one from Suzy, one from Charlie Sugerman, and one with no caller ID listed.
“Would it help if I came?” Suzy said when I explained I was stuck in Bridgetown. “I will, you know. At least you could unload on me. I don’t like the idea of you sitting around by yourself.”
“I have a lawyer now,” I said to reassure her, “and Dickie’s here.”
“Dickie? I should have known. You told him and he flew out immediately, without a toothbrush, I’m sure?”
“No, no. His prep school’s annual reunion is this weekend.”
“You’re at a college, aren’t you?”
“Right. His school’s in the next little town.”
“Hey, that could be a good thing, right? Still, you want me to come? I know he can be a curse as well as a help.”
I thanked her but explained that I expected to be back in San Francisco before she could finish packing. I have seen her take two weeks to pack for a long weekend, so I know how she operates. “I have to get out of here. I’m going crazy, but I need to do everything I can to make sure the police don’t decide to prosecute Gabby’s husband.”
“Why would they?”
“They haven’t got a clue who really killed her and you know how the police always say the killer is most likely to be a relative? Well, he’s her only local relative.”
“I hope they have more than that. It would be shocking. Does he have a lawyer?”
“I meant to ask that when I saw him a little while ago. He was so upset he jumped up and left before I had a chance.”
“Don’t get any more involved,” Suzy said. “You have a way of getting excited and finding yourself in nasty situations you can’t get out of.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but shut it with a snap. In truth, my curiosity about things that didn’t add up had gotten me into a few awkward situations in the past. All the same, I decided against telling her I was going to drive up to the golf course. This wasn’t the same thing. I was only going to look around, but I had a feeling she’d be all over me no matter what I said. So I thanked her and promised to call from the airport before my plane home took off.
****
Charlie had left a message: “I do think you should hire a lawyer out there to make sure the cops don’t get ideas. I had a good talk with the local chief. No cause for panic. I’ll fill you in when I reach you. Take care of yourself.” If Dickie was too free with words of affection, Charlie was the opposite. It was as if he thought his messages might be posted on Facebook or something.
I debated calling him, but decided to wait until I was back. I knew Charlie would not approve of my idea to check the place out on my own any more than Suzy would have. Anyway, I had taken his advice on two counts. I had told Detective Kirby about the research and had hired a lawyer to protect my interests.
The third recent call was an unknown number and I never return those, especially if my inner voice says they might be anonymous threats. I stuck the phone in my bag, and turned to the computer to finish the part of my report having to do with making a pledge binding. As I flipped the pages of notes I’d taken in my meetings at Lynthorpe and in San Francisco, I came across a name that rang a bell. I pulled out the single copy of an auction page that Gabby handed me before she went down to make me copies of the others.
There it was. Bart Corliss. He was the man Geoff had mentioned, the one who had jumped under a train. And here it was in a faint penciled note, “Corliss,” scribbled in the margin of the copy, almost off the page. So, had he been so grateful to his lawyer that he had bought him a present, a Roy Lichtenstein cartoon-style painting for twenty-one million dollars plus the broker’s fee? That’s a lot of gratitude.
****
Before I could explore the connection, I noticed out the window the golden light that signaled late afternoon. I needed to get out to the golf course. I jumped up and grabbed my bag, remembering to sign off the Web and flip the computer closed. As I was waiting for the elevator, I remembered I had a dinner meeting with the college’s dean at seven. I’d be pushed to drive out and back. No time to waste.
I swore at my easily distracted self when I realized I’d left the map in my hotel room. But I had internalized my destination when I traced it on the map, so I was okay. I looked in my rear view mirror a dozen times as I left town and climbed the road, but there was nothing at all suspicious. At first, there were a couple other cars, but they dropped off at side roads, and I was alone when I got to the place where the golf course was visible through a thin cover of trees. I parked in the same dirt pull-off where I’d had that awkward nighttime conversation with President Brennan. This time there was plenty of light and when I walked toward the course, I could see the pond, not at all menacing looking now as it reflected the blue and gold of the clouds and sky.
Four women were laughing and chatting as they hit off the green and away into the distance. They piled into two motorized carts and zipped down a graveled path and out of sight. So they must already have played through this hole. I waited to see if they appeared again, but they didn’t. Wondering if I was about to be hit on the head with a ball, I ventured through the trees and closer to the green that lay between me and the pond. There was a group of men far off but pointing in my direction with their clubs, so I retreated to the car to figure out what to do. I might be sitting here for a while, until it was too dark to play. That would make me late for dinner.
Happily, there was cell phone coverage. I called the dean’s office and explained I was on an errand and might be later getting back to the hotel. If he could wait, terrific, but if he couldn’t, I’d try to reschedule at least a phone call.
Meanwhile, the men had arrived on their carts, two of them smoking fat cigars. They glanced toward the woods at one point, but I wasn’t sure they could see me. I used the time to check emails and to respond to a couple of questions Teeni forwarded from the fundraising staff at the Devor. Mostly, they wanted me to approve expenditures, which I wasn’t likely to do unless I could work my way out of the department’s tight finances. One of Teeni’s emails caught my attention. “Burgess says he must talk to you directly at Geoff’s urging. He’s the lawyer for a company called Loros. Said he’d been trying to get you on yr cell. Shall I set up appt?” I hoped it wasn’t the call I had just erased, and responded that she should give him my cell phone number again ASAP with my apologies. I doubted very much it was a bequest.
Time has a way of disappearing when you’re looking at a screen, and when I looked up, the sun had set, muting the landscape. I checked my watch and was glad I’d left a message for Coe Anderson. Putting my handbag in the trunk and locking the car, I made my way through the trees again, picking up a dry fallen branch that was long enough to serve as a probe if I decided to venture to the pond. There was no one in sight in either direction as I stepped onto the manicured green.
I stood there and turned in a full circle. The dips and rises on the course meant that someone here might be visible to people farther away, then lost in the middle distance before becoming visible again when the golfer got close. That was if they were standing. I reminded myself that my question was whether or not anyone could have seen a man on the ground in the throes of a heart attack? Much less likely, even when the sun was still above the horizon, I realized.
I walked over to the pond where Saylor had died. It was bigger than I had thought, certainly no puddle. There was a narrow strip of sand around the edge, scuffed but too fine and dry to show any footprints. I couldn’t tell how deep it was at the center, but the edge where I poked the stick was quite shallow, maybe two or three inches deep. I looked around. Hoping no one would catch me being such an idiot, I slipped off my shoes, turned the bottom of my slacks up a couple of folds, and stepped into the edge of the water cautiously, poking in front of me with the stick. How far out did you have to go before it got deep enough to drown while lying flat?
Surprisingly, the sand gave way almost immediately to a muddy bottom. I shuddered at the feel of the mud between my toes. I’ve never liked wading in rivers. Give me white, sandy beaches anytime. The stick went a little deeper and I moved forward again. Suddenly, I jumped and cried out. An animal with a hard shell had moved under my foot. I scrambled backward, flailing with the tree limb. Was it a biting animal? Was it coming after me under the dark surface of the water? I lost my balance and sat down hard in four inches of water, and then it was underneath me. My hand brushed it as I scrambled to get my balance and stand up. Calm down, you fool. It was almost smooth, with a slightly pebbled surface. It was a perfect half circle. It was a golf ball, buried in the mud.
Soaked and dirty, I stood there, tree branch in one hand, golf ball in the other, darkness falling, and wondered if Saylor had tried to retrieve a golf ball, lost his balance, and suffered a stroke or a heart attack while trying to stand up again in a panic. If he fell farther into the pond, he might have been in a foot of water, which would be enough to drown him, poor man. No mystery, really, a freak accident. The dean’s comment about there being no lake might have been true, but it might as well have been one when Saylor’s head lay flat in it.
I heard a high-pitched whine coming from the course, and looked around as I hopped from one foot to the other to put on the sweet little ballet slippers that would now be ruined, and climbed to the green. Dark had almost fallen, but I could see a golf cart headed in my direction, still far off but clearly coming this way with one occupant. The last thing I wanted was to be seen in this condition, so I trotted back across the green as furtively as I could and picked my way through the trees, dropping the branch and the muddy golf ball in the fallen leaves. I retrieved my bag, shook out my pant legs and ducked into the car.
The electric cart stopped on the green and a man in a white short-sleeved shirt and dark pants jumped out. I got nervous when he turned on a flashlight and headed toward the pond, but after a minute, he came back, got on his little cart, and continued toward the next green. Ah, the groundskeeper, maybe the same guy who found Larry Saylor. I bet they made a special stop at this green every day now.
My wet slacks were uncomfortable and my watch said I had to hurry if I was going to change and meet the dean. I was alone on the way down until a car turned out from a side road. I was driving slowly since there were a lot of sharp turns in the road. No place for it to pass, and it was closer to my bumper than I liked. I eased to the right, hoping there was room for it to pass, but the driver didn’t take the hint. I sped up a bit to put some distance between us, but the car closed the gap immediately. I began to get nervous but told myself I was almost at the bottom of the hill, where the main road met this one and where there was bound to be traffic.
Of course, my luck, there were no other cars as I signaled and turned toward town. All I could see were its headlights creeping closer to me. Then, the driver turned on the high beams, almost blinding me. By now, we were racing along together and I was scared. Ahead of us I could see a lighted strip mall with a gas station sign on my side of the road. Good. I clicked my turn signal on, tapped my brakes repeatedly, and held my breath. The car behind me didn’t give an inch.
“Okay, buddy, this is it,” I said to the rear view mirror as the brightly lit station loomed. Getting as far to the right as I could without leaving the pavement, I swerved into the driveway and braked, peeking around my shoulder as soon as my car stopped moving. Nothing. The taillights of the car were rapidly receding from view.
If someone had meant to hurt me, he had plenty of opportunity on the winding road or even on the flats. Bratty teenagers fooling around? All I had was another case of the shakes and a strong instinct to get back to home base and lock the damn door. I was beginning to think Bridgetown was the spookiest place I’d ever been, pretty college campus or not.